Monday’s Child
by arctique48
Summary: The development of their relationship could almost be told by the days of the week. One shot. DHr


**AN:** Don't you just love how exam stress always drives you into doing something that will only make said exam stress far far worse at a later date? Such as writing a one-shot for a fanfic website and a bunch of people you're never likely to meet. There are these big future-deciding exams looming in only a fortnight's time and… you find yourself sitting at your computer writing about two of _someone else's_ characters. Just me? S'not fair. My brain never works the way I want it to.

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR**

-

I

Monday's child is fair of face 

For years it followed the exact same structure.

Monday morning. The alarm would ring, teeth would be brushed, uniform put on and hair swept back, descending the stairs ready to face the world.

They'd sit on wooden benches at great oaken tables, opposite each other and paying no heed to it. Two and two half houses would come and go between them and they'd eat the breakfast while reading the newspaper or chatting with housemates. There'd be orange juice and cereal, toast and maybe even a full English, with eggs and bacon and other greasy items, fried to perfection. They'd leave their tables separately, contented and full, heading off to lessons with a bagful of books on their backs.

Lessons began at nine, or thereabouts. They'd shuffle into chairs in front of graffiti stained desks and wait noisily with the rest of the class for the teacher to arrive. There would be chattering and laughing and the occasional stray spell. They'd interact in their own separate bubbles as though the world belonged only to them and all outside their personal social zones were merely extras on the great set of their life.

Year by year it differed. Maybe he'd be in charms and she'd have transfiguration, or perhaps she'd be in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. Sometimes they'd share a class, but most often not. Not on Monday mornings, at any rate.

They'd spend the hour in whatever way their separate teachers saw best, chanting spells, juggling formulae or scribing essays, and then they'd pack their bags up and head on for lesson two.

Friends would tell stories and opinions would be exchanged, conspiracy theories passed around the groups of children until they had been reduced to nothing more than schoolyard grudges. Perhaps he'd tell a joke and perhaps she'd laugh, but never together, so early in the week they were yet to interact and in separate circles they looped their way around the school for years.

Two more lessons would pass and hunger would grow in the boredom and restlessness that so often inhabited that first day of the week. Lunch would come then, two hours later than desired, and would be met with a barrage of bodies surging for the Great Hall.

It was at lunch that everyone truly woke up and maybe then they would acknowledge each other for the first time.

"Mudblood."

"Ferret."

They'd scowl and sneer, exchanging loathing out of habit, before settling down to munch their way through food and classroom rumours.

Perhaps later there'd be a scuffle between him and her friends, or maybe she'd beat him to the top grade. There could be verbal sparring between two enemies or snide comments between rivals, either way one would make their way to bed seething at the other's blatant nerve and the cycle would set itself up for the next day and the next, to the end of the week or term or year. Until the end of Hogwarts.

Monday mornings seemed to last forever back then, but Tuesday shouldered its way in and the children with their high hopes and dreams suddenly found they were growing up.

II

Tuesday's child is full of grace 

Yule Ball.

There was something in the air that night. She'd danced like she'd never danced before, revelling in the knowledge that someone actually _liked _her.

She danced and danced and pretended she couldn't see _him_ staring. Not Viktor, Malfoy. After the events of the previous year and with Rita Skeeter's slander casting its black shadow she hated him more than ever, but all the same… His words had stung and watching him, however secretly and reluctantly, eat them, was one of the most rewarding sights she could currently think of.

He danced with Pansy in a way very different to the way she danced with Viktor. He was perfectly timed, even graceful, and every move seemed textbook in its execution, but at the same time there was none of the enjoyment that seemed to hum about the other dancing couples. He seemed to be dancing for propriety as opposed to any form of actual _enjoyment_. Of course, Pansy was loving every minute, chatting and laughing and twirling in her pink frills, but Hermione sensed almost resentment in Malfoy's stance.

He didn't want to be there anymore than Harry or Ron, she laughed to herself. What _was_ it with boys and dancing?

-

Summer.

He was back.

He'd been so sure Potter was lying. So deadly sure, and yet there was his father, standing in front of him talking about loyalties and duty and sounding so damn certain while looking so damn scared.

It had frightened Draco.

Maybe he wasn't as grown up as he'd thought he was, taunting Granger while muggles spun in the air at the World Cup. Maybe he was still just a little boy having to adjust to the fact that his dad wasn't fearless or all-powerful.

That summer had dragged longer than any Draco remembered and no one would tell him what was going on. He'd hated it then, but looking back now, standing in front of his bathroom mirror while his hands shook and his new tattoo burned, it seemed like a long lost Eden.

He knew for real what was happening now. He'd seen it in their eyes when they gathered in wait (anticipation and fear), he'd seen it in His eyes when He appeared and watched and burnt hellfire through souls with eyes alone (Punishment. Death. Change).

There was going to be a war, and Draco's father wouldn't be saving him this time.

He sighs and runs his hand through his damp hair, not knowing that fifty miles away Hermione Granger does the exact same thing, eyes bright at a table in Grimmauld Place, sitting with the morning _Prophet_ and reading his actions printed in unforgiving black ink.

Tuesday draws to a close in a sunrise bright like blood. Red sky in the morning and Wednesday stretches out with no hope of rest. There is no turning back.

III

Wednesday's child is full of woe 

He's running now.

Running hard and fast with no certain destination.

He runs like he's been doing it his entire life and that's what it feels like. A lifetime wasted in fear.

He thinks back, on cold nights in strange rooms, to those times when having Potter as an ultimate nemesis was laughable. Back to a time when he would dress up and parade in front of the school trying to make the other boy cry. Sometimes he thinks on it in pride, sometimes in shame.

He doesn't believe in fate or karma or some omnipotent God. He doesn't believe in anything and he never really has. It never bothered him before and he tells himself it doesn't bother him now, but somehow, between damp sheets in another musty city bedsit with only Snape for company, he can't help thinking that all three are giving him one hell of a kick up the arse for such lack of faith.

He feels not so much fated as damned as draughts sneak their way around corners, curtains shifting to shed light on the arm lying on top of the sheets. The black brand of charred flesh leers up at him and he resists the urge to wretch in the knowledge that it's _his _flesh, his blood and his bone; his very soul tied to that obscene symbol. He stares at it in the eternal city twilight and marvels at the fact that he makes himself sick. For so long he felt nothing but pride bordering on arrogance in relation to himself, but now even the thought of his reflection is accompanied by bile and tears of shame.

He knows it's his own doing, he knows it's his own mistake, but still he's searching for someone to blame. His father. Potter. Dumbledore himself. They led him to this.

They led him to this and it wasn't even their intention. Is that how meaningless he really is? He's little more than a footnote to them, and yet on a whim they destroyed everything he's ever had.

He glares through tears into the darkness and the next night will be the same.

Snape will wake again soon and they'll be running once more, apparating from safe house to safe house. Muggle slums or burnt out buildings. There'll be more Polyjuice and more invisibility charms. There'll be curses and shouts and then silence and they'll move on again. It'll last as long as Potter does, Snape says, but Draco's not certain it will be that easy.

Potter may be their 'chosen one' or whatever, but after him there'll be Weasley and Granger, then Lupin and the aurors, then there'll be the teachers and all the other good guys fighting to the death for something they believe is so much greater than them. There'll be years of red-tinted martyrdom before it's safe to walk the streets again and Draco's not convinced the other side _know_ how to give up.

That scares him at little, sometimes. Scares him to tears.

It's been said before and no doubt it will be said again, but he so desperately wants to believe he's too young to die. (But then, so is Potter. And Draco doesn't see how this can be fixed any other way.)

-

She never used to find it difficult to sleep. She was one of those people who could sleep in the car on a motorway, or on a creaky old train. She'd put her head down and that would be it until her alarm went off however many hours later.

War changes many things.

His face flickers in two dimensions, lit by candlelight before her, and she wonders if it's changed him too.

The picture's one of him at school, looking snooty and arrogant with the bright vista of the lake behind him. Occasionally the mask will crack and he'll raise an amused eyebrow at the camera, all the while looking no different to any time she passed him in the corridors or spotted him across a classroom.

And that's the reason, she thinks.

The reason she's having such difficulty fitting _that_ face to _that_ story.

Picture-Draco flicks his hair from his eyes as his lips twitch into a smirk. Hermione turns the paper over, staring blankly ahead and leaving him posing to the bare wood of the table.

It says he's wanted, with a short list of others, for murder. Muggles, of course, but what bothered the reporter were the suggestions of torture and rape that went along with it. Right below that picture of a smirking schoolboy on a bright summer day was a detailed account of every mark that was left on the couple's bodies, every spell detected in the magic scarred living room.

It doesn't seem right, she thinks, for her to be sitting in the kitchen to an old, old house, reading a newspaper with the picture of a _boy she knew_ headlining in words of blood and death. It doesn't seem right that they should use _that picture_ to illustrate it. Taken at Hogwarts, the one place things like these couldn't touch. And then she frowns. Because things like those could touch it in the end. And they did, by his hand. She turns the paper back again and watches his face, wondering if she can really see it there, see the betrayal carved in his skin, see the fear in his eyes and the darkness in his blood. That summer… almost two years ago now. Had he already sold his soul?

She watches and watches until the candle burns out with dawn.

And she's still not sure if she's seen anything, but maybe there's a new tightness to his jaw, an extra crease in his brow. Maybe he was guilty even then.

The war is being waged and Hermione Granger watches Draco Malfoy's story unfold in the black and white hours of her insomnia. And she wonders, with maybe a little bit of hope, if he's really as far gone as they find themselves believing.

The war changes many things and Hermione Granger is no longer as trusting as she used to be. But she looks at his picture in the cold light of dawn and thinks, why, Draco Malfoy, should we take you back? She thinks it and smiles, because even then she thinks she knows the answer.

IV

Thursday's child has far to go 

He's repenting, but it's not enough. Not yet.

She sits on the hard wooden bench in that cold stone room and knows this.

He's hurt too many people to just stand up there and say 'I made a mistake!' Can't he see their faces? He's not the only person who suffered in that war. Harry has more than a limp and a stretching prison sentence to show for his struggle, every single member of that jury has lost _something_.

And yet as she watches him, as she sits there and criticises, she can see how hard he's trying. The pride he's sacrificed to take that stand and say those things. He's not like his father. She knows that now. His father wouldn't have hesitated and his father would have begged.

And Draco Malfoy isn't begging now. He's apologising.

Asking for forgiveness in a way that makes no sense to her. There's disgust on his face but it's all for _him_. No one else.

He's doing it all in some roundabout way so utterly devoid of innocence that people are actually starting to listen. Starting to look at the man anchored in that chained fist of a chair and think, 'he was just a boy; a Harry Potter that went wrong'.

She's almost a little horrified to see that the self-loathing is actually working.

She's not sure if it makes him a better person, his shame for his actions, his regret and fear. But one thing does stand out, for every damning sentence, every cursed scrap of butchered pride, is the absence of those words so many said before him.

He's been on trial for a month now. The highest profile case to still be undecided after so long, and the reason for it is his utter lack of denial. Hermione is certain of it. Others have kicked and screamed and made claims of bewitchment and Imperio, but not one of them have stood up and said they're sorry.

And Harry's on the stand now, giving evidence of that night in the tower.

He's telling the ladies and gentlemen of the jury of the shiver of uncertainty that stayed Malfoy's wand, that flicker of a question that lowered the arm before any hope of redemption was put out by Snape's intervention.

They'd planned what he was going to say last night. Her, Harry and Ron, all curled in front of a fire, effectively writing Malfoy's future. Because this was the decider. Harry's word meant more than anyone's nowadays.

Malfoy would be let off, his life sentence reduced to months. But for all her optimism and support she didn't so much trust him as… wish it had been different. Same with everyone else in the room.

He'd be let off, that was as good as certain by the tears in the jury member's eyes as Harry stepped down, but for him to accepted would take a different show altogether.

Regret for past actions was one thing, but now they needed him to show he was willing to change.

He had been staring straight at her, all through Harry's speech. She looked up and saw his eyes flick away.

She was grasping at loose ends on this one, but part of her was almost willing to think he'd get there, in the end. If he tried hard enough.

-

He was alone again.

Alone in a whitewashed room so similar to the interrogation chambers he'd frequented in the tail end of the war. It was unnerving.

He frowned slightly and picked up the quill lying on the kitchen counter. His brow creased slightly as he inked the instrument, foreign after so long without use. It took a while but he eventually managed to add the first item to his shopping list.

"Paint," it read.

He stood up and looked around the bare room. There was a bed, a chair, a strange muggle looking box and a few doors leading to rooms he was yet to explore. Home, he thought, almost feeling the corners of his mouth tug down. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

He had his wand but he'd been told that if he used it over the next few months he'd be back in Azkaban sooner than you could say 'Dementor'. Which was pretty shite really, all things considered; he didn't have the slightest clue how to cook without it.

His fortune had been frozen, his Manor locked up. His mother was in St Mungo's and he wasn't able to visit her and his father was better off dead than serving the sentence he had in Azkaban.

All in all the Malfoy estate had pretty much crumbled to dust, and it was now down to him to build it up again. And build it he would, he vowed, picking up a muggle stick, like a wand with buttons, and pressing it experimentally.

Behind him the TV hummed into life.

"Tonight the south of England will be experiencing light showers…"

Eye's wide and holding the remote like a wand he spun to face the box.

_Sweet Salazar_, he thought, _This must be how Mad-Eye Moody started out… The box is actually talking to me._

V

Friday's child is loving and giving 

He's the perfect gentleman, his dress robes flawlessly pressed, his smile unfaltering and only a little cold. He holds the door open for her and bows.

She's not sure why but she's almost glad she ended up sharing the carriage with Malfoy; it had been an enlightening ride to say the least.

He's got his magic back now and some of his possessions (his wardrobe for one). He started out as a badly paid clerk in the Ministry, dishing out bitterness and getting yet more bitterness in return, but a year or so of menial work and by luck he was promoted. He'd got talking to more influential people and since then he'd been climbing up the political ladder like he'd been born to it, which, she thought, was technically true.

However, unlike his father, he got his power not because of his name, but in spite of it. Absolutely everyone had been sceptical when he ran for Head of the Office of International Magical Relations but despite his unpopularity he had proven himself to be the only man for the job.

She'd read about his progress with a smug sense of pride, not really knowing why, but staring at his offered hand she suddenly feels herself begin to realise something: after almost five years, she has actually forgiven him.

She stares blankly at his hand and he watches her with a raised eyebrow, "Erm, Granger… The carriage _has_ got other places to be."

"What?" she blinks and shakes her head, meeting his amused eyes only fleetingly before ignoring the hand and jumping down herself.

He takes back his hand and nods to her curtly, stepping away and heading through the grand doors of the host building without a further glance in her direction.

"Have a good evening, Malfoy," she says quietly, the phrase reverberating around her head until she finds herself wishing him a good _life_.

VI

Saturday's child works hard for a living 

They're struggling together on this one. She needs his backing, his political support means even more than Harry's these days and with plans like these she needs all the help she can get.

"You cannot be serious!"

"Why not? It's perfect. Everything you want plus extra for me, I'd say that's a pretty good deal."

They're sitting in a small restaurant off of Diagon Ally, food utterly forgotten in light of his latest idea.

"That will never work! I mean, how stupid do you think the poor man is?"

"Trust me on this one, I've dined with him more times than I care to remember. He'll go straight for the bait. I promise you."

The transformation was incredible and utterly complete. He was Older Malfoy as she had always imagined him to grow up to be, back at school. Devious, mean and more than a little bit attractive. (She mentally slapped herself for the latter thought.) He'd somehow managed to come through Death Eater-ship and claw his way up to the top on the other side. How, she wondered, was that even possible? He was just about _the_ most hated man in the country when he was released and yet if he went for Minister now he'd probably get it. It was incredible.

It's always been said that suffering makes you stronger. She hates that thought so much nowadays, thinking of Ron and Neville, permanently disabled in wake of the war. But for some, perhaps it is true. Malfoy for one would never have been the person he was today without the pain and fear that almost drowned him in his late teens, nor would Harry or even herself. In some ways she thinks the war helped Malfoy more than it hurt him, but that only calls upon the question of how much are you willing to pay for deliverance.

Her eyes fall to his arm, as ever covered by his sleeve even in the heat of the summer, and she can't help feeling a little guilty for her thoughts.

"Granger? Are you with me?"

"Uh- What? Oh, yes. Completely. Go for it."

He's smirking again and instead of seething she's laughing with him.

"Sorry, you wouldn't mind repeating that last bit would you?"

VII

_But the child born on the Sabbath Day,_

_Is fair and wise and good and gay._

Their weeks now follow an exact structure.

Monday to Friday was for work, they both considered themselves defined by their profession and nothing else would have made sense.

Saturday was for individual friends, laughing about old times or mourning long-passed hurts. Saturday started early and finished late but in the end they'd always come back home, to sit by the fire and discuss their day or to fall straight into bed without another word.

Sometimes Saturday would end bitterly with fights and harsh words, and sometimes it would end in tears and warm hugs. But however the previous day passed their Sunday would remain the same.

He always woke us first on Sundays, it was like a natural law; she did not leave the bed before him.

He'd go to the kitchen and fight with the appliances she insisted on keeping. He'd swear as his wand refused to light their electric stove and throw the white plastic kettle at the wall. He'd glare at the cat and poke the charred remains of attempted toast with a knife, wondering if she'd notice if he just scraped all the black bits off.

He'd try for roughly ten minutes to make breakfast 'her way' before pulling out his wand and creating a culinary masterpiece with a flick of the wrist, every time knowing it was cheating and feeling almost a little sad that she wouldn't appreciate it half as much as the burnt toast now being clawed at by the cat.

He sets it all up on a tray and conjures a flower before screwing up his face at his unconscious sappiness and throwing it straight in the bin. There's a slight pause as he creaks open their bedroom door, and face hidden by her hair, she smiles as he tries to walk quietly across the room.

He leaves the tray, heated by magic, on her bedside table, ducking his head to kiss her cheek before creeping into the bathroom.

He does it every week and every week he thinks she's still asleep and every week she watches him with half lidded eyes, feeling all warm and fuzzy at the antics he'd deny instantly if ever questioned.

She pretends to doze for another few minutes before eating the food and slipping into her own daily routine, on a different orbit to his, exchanging the odd word or smile or kiss but little more before leaving the house to face another day.

It's been a rough journey, she acknowledges as she switches out the lights, but as she crawls into bed next to him Hermione can't help feeling happy at the way things turned out.

-

_**If you've read it please review it!**_


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